


delicate

by fauxghost



Series: Carry On Countdown (2017) [6]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Carry On Countdown (Simon Snow), Carry On Countdown 2017, Falling In Love, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Musician Baz, Strangers to Lovers, artist Simon, these boys are so gone for each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 19:25:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12918645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fauxghost/pseuds/fauxghost
Summary: “I didn’t come here to be found, but blue eyes meet mine from across the bar.”Simon and Baz find each other. Beginnings are always delicate.





	delicate

**Author's Note:**

> Day 10: Song Inspired  
> Song: Delicate by Taylor Swift  
> (italic sections are lyrics)

_ This ain't for the best _

_ My reputation's never been worse, so _

_ You must like me for me... _

_ We can't make _

_ Any promises now, can we, babe? _

_ But you can make me a drink... _

_ Dive bar on the east side, where you at? _

_ Phone lights up my nightstand in the black _

_ Come here, you can meet me in the back _

_ Dark jeans and your Nikes, look at you _

_ Oh damn, never seen that color blue _

_ Just think of the fun things we could do _  
  


I didn’t come here to find anyone - I wanted nothing more than to swallow my problems down with a pint of Guinness until my piercing thoughts became subdued and the world became hazy.

I didn’t come here to be found, but blue eyes meet mine from across the bar. This dive is even smaller than my flat, and I can see every part of him in detail, from the bronze hair that looks almost brown under the dim lights to the moles scattered across his face and arms, creating dizzying constellations across his skin. It’s his eyes that strike me the most - an entirely new shade of blue, too dull to be the wavering ocean, yet too alive to be compared to the murky night sky that looms outside the window next to me. 

He has a lively manner about him, apprehensive but still confident. His expression changes as we acknowledge each other, eyebrows lifting in a challenging but inviting way. The blaring music is suddenly all too loud, the crowd too massive. I’m so drawn to him that I’m angry at the people standing between us. 

I stay still, sitting eagerly in my booth as he leisurely closes the gap between us.

When he’s right in front of me, I realize I had underestimated just how jaw droppingly gorgeous he is. We exchange quiet hello’s charged with electricity, our voices low despite the noise of the bar. His name is Simon Snow, it rolls off the tongue with the same ease he walks with. My name is sharp, all harsh consonants. It sounds a lot better when he says it.

Simon slides into the seat across from me without hesitation and we engage in meaningless conversation. It’s the undertones that cause me to feel like I’m falling apart and coming together at the same time, the way his eyes warily shift to the window, like whatever shadows he’s running away from are right outside, the way he tries to make me laugh and beams when I finally give in, the way he looks at me like I’m something worth looking at.

We talk until the conversation shifts away from small talk and into more dangerous territory. “Why are you here?”

I gesture to the half finished pint sitting on the tale. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“There are plenty of other bars in London.” He takes a sip of his own drink. I know he’s referring to the fact that this is the shittest dive bar in the city, dingy and dirty and hidden.

“No one knows who I am here.” It slips out before I can think twice about being so honest.

“Except me.”

“You don’t know me at all, Snow.”

“You can call me Simon, you know.”

“I know, Snow.”

He rolls his bluer-than-blue eyes at that, but a small grin forms on his face. “Maybe I want to know you.”

I don’t know how to respond to that, or maybe I’m afraid to. “Why are _ you  _ here?”

“I wasn’t really sure,” Simon’s gaze is focused on the table, until his eyes slowly slide up to meet mine. “Until now.”

We don’t exchange numbers, but he turns back to me before leaving: “I’ll be here tomorrow night.”

“As will I.”

“Promise?”

I don’t make promises anymore, I’ve learned they’re too easily broken. “Goodnight, Simon.”

 

_ Is it cool that I said all that? _

_ Is it chill that you're in my head? _

_ 'Cause I know that it's delicate (delicate) _

_ Is it cool that I said all that _

_ Is it too soon to do this yet? _

_ 'Cause I know that it's delicate _

_ Isn't it? _  
  


I dream of blue.  
  


_ Third floor on the west side, me and you _

_ Handsome, you're a mansion with a view _

_ Do the girls back home touch you like I do? _

_ Long night, with your hands up in my hair _

_ Echoes of your footsteps on the stairs _

_ Stay here, honey, I don't wanna share _

_ 'Cause I like you _

_ This ain't for the best _

_ My reputation's never been worse, so _

_ You must like me for me _

_ Yeah, I want you _

_ We can't make _

_ Any promises now, can we, babe? _

_ But you can make me a drink _

 

He’s waiting for me in the same booth from last night. My dreams didn’t do justice to his eyes, his sculpted face, his captivating smile. “Baz.”

“Snow.”

He orders me a drink while I stare at his lips. 

We talk like we’re alone - like the room isn’t full of drunk people dancing to repetitive music. We don’t talk about where we come from, and we’re too afraid to find out where the other is going, for fear that the answer is “away from here”. This is the only thing that matters. Here. Now. Simon Snow leaning over the table at a timeworn dive bar, hanging onto my words, trying to see past my carefully guarded expression. Simon Snow grinning at me like we’re sharing a secret, smile full of sincerity, moles as alluring as ever. Simon Snow.

We talk about ourselves, saying so little yet so much at the same time.

Simon is an artist. He looks at me intently while saying, “I’ve always loved beautiful things.”

I’m a musician. I say, “Me too.”

We only have one drink each, but Simon’s words are intoxicating enough to make me feel drunk.

At some point, a fight breaks out across the bar, probably over something stupid. No one has much of a reaction when the guys are slugging each other, or when a worker finally throws them out, like this happens all the time.

“This place is terrible.” Simon laughs.

It doesn’t seem so terrible when he’s sitting across from me, but I play along. “Right? How did I end up here?”

There’s a familiar glint in Simon’s eyes. “Well, the dive bar is part of the journey, not the destination.”

My voice lowers. “What’s the destination?”

“I’ll show you.” 

We leave the bar hand in hand, heartbeats racing in tandem. 

 

Now we’re alone. The noise of the bar is gone, replaced by charged silence. It’s just us, Simon and me, a catastrophic picture of blue and grey, soft and harsh, light and dark. I feel a pull, a tension in my veins that is only satisfied when our lips finally meet.

I kiss him sloppily, but gently, like he’s delicate. He kisses me back the same way.

I experience the rest of the night in flashes of beauty and pleasure.

His name on my lips, his teeth on my neck, his hands in my hair.

His jeans look so good on him, I almost don’t want take them off. (I change my mind as soon as I do.)

Moles that used to be hidden under clothes - I kiss them all.

Bodies lit by moonlight, touches filled with intensity. 

I understand what Simon meant by “beautiful things” as he kisses along my neck and collarbone, leaving marks, making me his masterpiece.

The sounds he makes are like music to me, better than anything I could compose.

Simon moans underneath me as we both come undone.

 

After we clean up, we find our way back to his bed and become tangled up in each other to the point where I don’t know where I end and Simon beings. It feels right.

I feel high, heady and warm. I almost think I imagine it when Simon says, “Are you going to stay the night?”

“Am I welcome to?”

“Yes.” Simon kisses me sleepily. He’s still a little tipsy. “Yes - I want you to be here when I wake up.”

“I will be.”

“Promise?”

“Goodnight, Simon.”

 

_ Is it cool that I said all that? _

_ Is it chill that you're in my head? _

_ 'Cause I know that it's delicate (delicate) _

_ Is it cool that I said all that _

_ Is it too soon to do this yet? _

_ 'Cause I know that it's delicate _

_ Isn't it? _

 

The dive bar becomes a thing of the past.

We spend lust-filled nights and long, slow mornings holed up in Simon’s flat, drowning in each other. When we’re not touching like we’re afraid to let go, Simon paints. He’s working on a collection, it’s going to be premiered in one of the biggest art galleries in London. I write music that no one will ever hear. Sometimes when we need fresh air Simon will take me to his favorite diner (the boy eats like an animal - somehow it’s endearing) or we’ll take walks, going nowhere in particular. 

One night when we’re wrapped around each other, lazily falling asleep, Simon asks me something. “Are we taking this too fast?”

“What is  _ this _ ?”

“This. You and me. I mean-” Simon falters. “This is more than just… sex, isn’t it?”

“It is.”  _ It’s so much more. _

“Okay,” he whispers. “Are we? Taking it too fast, I mean.” 

_ This.  _ It’s too important to be rushed, too delicate to be handled without care, yet here we are suffocating each other with all the love we can give. I know I should be cautious about something like this, but I don’t want to stop. “I don’t know, Snow.”

“I don’t want this to… break.” He sounds like he’s been there before.

I run a hand through his curls. “I don’t think it will.”

“Promise?

I kiss him instead of replying. “Goodnight, Simon.”

Nothing lasts forever, but I’m afraid to lose this.  
  


_ Sometimes I wonder when you sleep _

_ Are you ever dreaming of me? _

_ Sometimes when I look into your eyes _

_ I pretend you're mine, all the damn time _

_ 'Cause I like you _  
  


Nothing lasts forever. Life always gets in the way.

Summer ends, transitioning into a mercilessly cold autumn. I have to go back to University - Simon and I will be miles and miles apart after weeks of having no space between us. Simon’s showing at Whitechapel Gallery is in a month, he has to focus on creating something more beautiful than the moments we had in his flat. The first night in the dive bar feels like it was ages ago, and when Simon and I part ways, it almost feels like it never happened. I sleep alone for the first time in a while - it feels wrong. I lay awake wondering if he dreams of me.

I don’t promise that we’ll still see each other, that  _ this  _ will continue. He doesn’t even ask me to.

University forces me into being too busy to worry about anything other than schoolwork - I haven’t even been writing music. I haven’t been calling Simon. He doesn’t call, either.

I keep thinking maybe that was it - maybe that was our summer. An enchanted, unforgettable summer of loving Simon Snow. Maybe he’s already moved on. Maybe that’s all it was supposed to be.

I’ve always been alone, I thought I was better off that way. Now I’m not so sure, because my entire being aches for him. 

 

_ Is it cool that I said all that? _

_ Is it chill that you're in my head? _

_ 'Cause I know that it's delicate (delicate) _

_ Yeah, I want you _

_ Is it cool that I said all that _

_ Is it too soon to do this yet? _

_ 'Cause I know that it's delicate (delicate) _

_ 'Cause I like you _

_ Is it cool that I said all that? _

_ (Isn't it?) _

_ Is it chill that you're in my head? _

_ (Isn't it? Isn't it?) _

_ 'Cause I know that it's delicate _

_ (Isn't it?) _

_ (Delicate) _

_ Yeah, I want you _

_ Is it cool that I said all that _

_ (Isn't it?) _

_ Is it too soon to do this yet? _

_ (Isn't it? Isn't it?) _

_ 'Cause I know that it's delicate _

_ (Isn't it?) _

_ Delicate _

 

I go back to London to visit Fiona, not because I’m drawn there, not because I’m pulled by the same magnetism that led my lips to Simon’s. Of course not.

I eventually need to get out of Fiona’s flat to breathe. Her loud, angst-filled music gives me a headache and she keeps questioning why I’m acting so distant. I can’t tell her the truth - I don’t even think I could put my feelings into words if I wanted to. That would explain why my songwriting notebook hasn’t been touched since I last saw him.

It’s pouring rain when I walk the streets but I don’t care. I follow the paths that Simon and I used to walk, hand in hand, laughing and kissing and never wanting to let go. All of the memories come back to me, filling my head with the sweet sound of his voice and the enticing blue of his eyes. Somehow I end up standing in front of the old dive bar, the place where it all started. I don’t go inside - I’m afraid I’ll find our booth empty, haunted by ghosts of the past. I’m even more afraid I’ll find Simon sitting there, flirting someone better than me, someone who wouldn’t be stupid enough to let slip away.

The rain begins to crash to the ground even harder as I turn away from the bar, walking with no direction. I let it soak me, but I’m still too numb to feel anything but a far off loneliness.

Somehow I end up in front of Whitechapel Gallery and I stop breathing.

It’s all lit up, shining through the dark night like a beacon. A sign stands in front, battered with rain. It reads:  _ Delicate by Simon Snow - Opening Night. _

Another memory from summer comes rushing back to me.

_ “This is it!” Simon proclaims, gesturing in front of us. He’s motioning to a brick building that somehow looks antique and modern at the same time. It’s the Whitechapel Gallery. “This is where my collection is showing.” _

_ He hasn’t shown me any of the art pieces he’s been pouring his soul into for the past few weeks. “What’s the collection about?” _

_ He looks at me, his expression guarded but playful. “You’ll see.” _

_ “At least tell me the name of it.”  _

_ “Delicate.” He whispers as he squeezes my hand.  _

_ “It sounds beautiful.”  _

_ “I want you to be there,” Simon smiles, “Opening night.” _

_“Well, I was hoping_ _I’d be invited. I kind of have a thing for the artist.”_

_ “Oh really?”  _

_ Grey eyes meet blue. “Yes.” _

_ “Your name will be at the top of the list.” Simon hesitates, and then continues, “You’ll be there… That’s one promise you can make, right?.” _

_ I don’t make promises, but I kiss him and say, “You know I’ll be there, love.”  _

My hand feels so empty now as I stare up at Whitechapel Gallery. I curse myself for not trying harder to make things work, for letting Simon slip through my fingers. Part of me wonders if my name is still on the list, but I can’t let myself hope. I’m starting to shiver, my clothes are soaked. I need to get back to Fiona’s flat before she starts worrying about me more than she already has. I close my eyes for a second, wishing I could picture the exact shade of Simon’s eyes, but it’s been too long. 

I give Whitechapel Gallery one last glance before I turn to go, and something catches my eye.

The sign advertising his collection has a preview of one of the pieces. It’s a detailed painting of a run-down dive bar.

Without giving myself a chance to change my mind, to turn back before I get hurt again, I enter the gallery. Looking around in a daze, my eyes land on another sign sitting in front of double doors, the same one from before.  _ Simon’s name. Delicate. The dive bar.  _ The exhibition must be right through those doors. I charge forward, oblvious to the woman at the front desk until she speaks up, “Excuse me, sir, are you here for the exhibition?”

“Yes.” 

She’s looking at me warily, and it’s only then that I remember I’m dripping wet. “Name, please.”

“Basilton Pitch.”

I think I see a flash of recognition in her eyes, and she says, “Go right in.” 

I wonder if I should clean up before I do, change into dry clothes or at least comb through my wet, windblown hair. But if I leave now I might be too afraid to come back. 

Taking a shaky breath, I push the doors open.

Displayed before me is last summer -  _ our  _ summer. It starts out with lonely looking paintings of a shitty dive bar, a dimly lit booth and half finished drinks. As I walk further into the exhibit, the paintings become more romantic. Ruffled bed sheets lit by moonlight, hands intertwined over a scone-covered table. The details are so exact, I end up getting lost in each painting, spelled back in time. 

I stop in my tracks when I arrive at the first painting of me. I’m back in the booth, grey eyes and tan skin, with a distant, longing look on my face. 

There are so many more paintings, and I’m surrounded by my face through Simon’s eyes. My hands, playing the guitar - my fingertips and my go-to acoustic guitar are painted with so much detail that I almost believe I’m looking at a photograph. My eyes, more deep and expressive than I ever thought they could look. My lips curved into a smile, smooth and pink - for some reason the painting makes me glad I haven’t kissed anyone since Simon. My face, harsh lines created with soft colors, painted with the same gentle strokes his fingertips made when he played with my hair.  _ I’ve always loved beautiful things.  _

I’ve spent weeks replaying this summer in my head, and now I’m seeing it through Simon’s eyes.

When I finally tear my eyes away from the last painting - a picture of me from behind, staring at a radiant sunset (our last day together) - I turn around to see a pair of wide blue eyes.

He’s right here, standing right in front of me with an apologetic expression, and I can’t believe I ever let him go. “Baz, I-”

I cut him off with a kiss, wrapping my arms around him, trying to pour all of my emotions into it. Simon kisses me back, hungrily but softly, like I’ll disappear if he pushes too hard. Like I’m delicate. 

He pulls back much too soon for my liking (I want to kiss him until I feel warm again). “Baz… you’re not mad?”

Our arms are still twisted around each other, oblivious to anyone else in the gallery. “Why would I be mad?”

“I should have asked you first, I…” Simon’s eyes are searching mine. I never want to look away, I want to memorize the exact blue shade of his eyes so I don’t forget again. “I put everything on display… all of our… all of it, Baz. After you left I was going to change the collection, but… I couldn’t. I’ve only been able to paint you, ever since we met. But I should have asked, especially after...”

“I love it, Simon.” 

“I think I love you.” He responds, the words tumbling out like he’s just realizing it.

I can’t remember how to breathe. “I thought you moved on.”

“I thought  _ you _ did.”

I grip him tighter, ignoring the fact that I’m getting his nice suit soaked. “Never.”

“Neither did I.” 

My voice lowers, reminiscent of our intimate dive bar conversations from lifetimes ago. “I think I love you, too.” 

Simon’s face lights up at that, eyes shining. He pulls me in for another deep kiss, hands in my hair. “Don’t ever leave me again,” He whispers, and it sounds like music. 

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> so, i wasn't planning on doing anything for this prompt but yesterday i heard the song delicate and this story came to my head. i wanted to write a story that had the same vibe as that song.  
> my fics are usually dialogue heavy so this was a new challenge for me and i really loved writing it!  
> thank you so much for reading, i hope you enjoyed <3
> 
> ps: leave me a fucking comment i'm very lonely (ily if u get that reference)


End file.
